


Working Up a Sweat

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Barebacking, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Creampie, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is a size queen, Dildos, Gym Sex, Gyms, M/M, Masturbation, Personal Trainer Aziraphale, Shower Sex, Size Kink, Spitroasting, Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism, don't read too much into it, every day i stray further from frances mcdormand, flirty redhead works hard to get railed, like he's gagging for it ngl, thirsty blond is hard to sway, this is again just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: "Right." Aziraphale sucks in a lungful of air and tries for his best polite smile, around a swallow. "So, how about we get started?""Lead the way, handsome," Crowley winks.Aziraphale ignores the tease, the flush in his face receding down to what must be a soft pink. Everything is alright, and this is just another day at work. He will nose-dive into known routines and–"So, how do you want me?" Crowley asks, with a sly smile.All of Aziraphale’s thoughts veer off track into something that’s absolutely not sensible. “I beg your pardon?”“To start?" Crowley makes a loop-like gesture with his hand, seemingly unperturbed, but the curve of his lips says otherwise. "With the routine?”Right. Aziraphale tramples down the giddiness in his heart. Crowley's joking, and he shouldn't let it affect him. Get a grip. Honestly.ORFlirty Redhead Works Hard to Get Railed
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 113
Kudos: 516
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffablexxx - Directors Cut, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Working Up a Sweat

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again, because apparently I have no self control whatsoever regarding writing filth. Thanks so much to my enablers [caedmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmon/pseuds/Caedmon), [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) and with a very special mention to [divinehedonism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinehedonism/pseuds/divinehedonism) who went out of their way to cheer me up.  
> The title comes courtesy of [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) because she's genius like that. 
> 
> You guys, y'all should know better than to allow me to do this. 💕
> 
> As always my love to [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) for being my very supportive beta.

Regarding work, Mondays are always dreadful. 

Aziraphale is already standing near the treadmill, waiting for whoever Gabriel will decide to assign him today. Someone ridiculously demanding, he's sure of it, because Gabriel always gives him the hardest assigns. To keep him on his toes, he says.

He hears Gabriel's distinct footsteps closing in at his back, but he keeps his eyes riveted to the gleaming window, hoping for a split second that if he doesn't turn around Gabriel will just go away. 

It has never worked before. 

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel booms, behind him. 

It hasn't worked this time either. 

Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders sagging. _Oh, well_. Here he goes again, to coddle and babysit some–

He turns on his heels and his breath leaves him in a swift, warm-tinged rush. 

"This is Anthony Crowley," Gabriel says with a false smile. "He'll be training with us from today. I want you to show him why we're the best." He winks before leaving. 

Aziraphale registers perhaps one third of that statement, very focused on the way his own body seems determined to embarrass him further. His mouth falls a bit slack and he can feel the drip of something hot at the back of his neck, spreading around to the front of his throat and creeping up to his cheeks. The man, _Anthony_ , certainly can't be real. 

No, Aziraphale is sure he's completely imagining a stunning redhead with a perfect face, standing in front of him, looking at him with a slightly arched brow. Hazel eyes, slender neck, and sharp cheekbones that make Aziraphale think the man just walked off the cover of a magazine. Aziraphale is sure this is a fever-dream. This man, dressed in the tightest leggings he's ever seen clinging to impossibly-long legs for dear life, and wearing a loose shirt that leaves his entire toned midriff exposed to the blessed breath of air, can _not_ be real. Otherwise, his job just got a hundred times more more complicated.

He considers blinking, or perhaps reaching for a sip of water to shake off his delusion. 

But then the mirage speaks. 

"So, you got a name?" Anthony asks with a smile He folds his arms across his chest and smirks with those impossibly soft-looking lips. "Anything I can work with? Or do I have to make something up?" 

Aziraphale grunts, in lieu of speaking, and Anthony's smile widens. This is absolutely ridiculous. This is his job, and Anthony is just another client. A gorgeous, devastatingly handsome client, but that’s all. And Aziraphale is old enough to not have infatuations like an artless teenager.

"Ah," he manages. "Uhm."

"Bit of a short name, that." Anthony unloads his gym bag and steps closer. "Any preferences between ah or uhm?"

Aziraphale sinks a canine into his lip and reins himself in, giving Anthony a disapproving look. "Such a jester," and thank the Lord, his voice is almost steady. "You can call me Aziraphale."

"That's more like it," Crowley says, smiling. "And you can call me Crowley. Only my mum calls me Anthony."

"Right." Aziraphale sucks in a lungful of air and tries for his best polite smile, around a swallow. "So, how about we get started?"

"Lead the way, handsome," Crowley winks. 

Aziraphale ignores the tease, the flush in his face receding down to what must be a soft pink. Everything is alright, and this is just another day at work. He will nose-dive into known routines and–

"So, how do you want me?" Crowley asks, with a sly smile. 

All of Aziraphale’s thoughts veer off track into something that’s absolutely not sensible. “I beg your pardon?” 

“To start?" Crowley makes a loop-like gesture with his hand, seemingly unperturbed, but the curve of his lips says otherwise. "With the routine?”

 _Right._ Aziraphale tramples down the giddiness in his heart. Crowley's joking, and he shouldn't let it affect him. _Get a grip_ . _Honestly._

“Right,” he says, grappling for balance. “Is this your first time?" A second after the last syllable leaves his mouth, he’s wincing at the wording, but it's too late. Crowley's already sporting a Cheshire grin. 

"Hardly.” He runs his slender fingers through his hair, pulling at his hair band and redoes his low bun in a high ponytail, without moving his gaze off Aziraphale. Aziraphale has to forcibly tear his eyes away and settle them onto one of the treadmills. “I just switched gyms 'cause the people at the last place were nasty.”

"So, you do have some experience, then?" Aziraphale pushes through. 

Crowley’s smile is somewhat roguish, delightfully impish, showing off the glint of white teeth. "Oh, I have oodles of experience," he says and bends over to rummage in his backpack for his water bottle without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving Aziraphale with nothing to look at but the perfect curve of his arse. 

He shouldn't ogle. He knows he shouldn't. But the second he's about to turn away, Crowley shimmies his hips and spares a glance over his shoulder that doesn't quite manage to look entirely innocent. And Aziraphale can't stop noticing how tight and firm his arse cheeks seem under the painted-on leggings, can't stop imagining their weight in his hands, how Crowley would feel snuggled tightly against his groin. 

_Right. Stop that_. 

Very much despite himself, he feels his cock twitching in his trousers, and he thanks the fact his track pants manage to conceal any improper reaction. 

Oh, this is going to be a hard— _difficult_ day indeed.

* * *

Crowley has been running on the treadmill for fifteen minutes now, and Aziraphale is in the process of shredding his lower lip. He's been chewing on the poor thing to stop himself from approaching Crowley every time he calls him under ridiculous pretexts. Aziraphale isn't naïve enough to not see the clearly playful gleam in those hazel eyes every time their gazes meet. And Aziraphale has been tempted to close the few feet in between them and perhaps steal a breath of nearness, a brush of contact. 

But this is his job and there's some sort of boundary required between them. It must exist, Aziraphale thinks. _Somewhere_. 

The light glints off Crowley's sweat-dewed skin, drops dripping down the crease of his spine. Aziraphale finds himself wanting to reach and drag the pad of a finger down, flatten his palm just where the hints of dimples peek above the line of the waistband, over the smooth play of Crowley's back. He's been waiting for another client to be assigned to him, for a distraction to appear, but Gabriel hasn't returned, so he stands at one side fiddling with his water bottle in an attempt to tame his thoughts. 

This is terribly unbecoming. 

Crowley increases the speed then, and in the middle of the almost-deserted space, Aziraphale can hear his panting breath, the way every intake of air rasps along that long, tantalizing throat. Amber eyes gaze up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, and Crowley winks, the tip of his tongue sweeping over his lips. 

It pulls up thoughts and images that would be better not to have, of long limbs stretched out on creased sheets while a hand (much like Aziraphale's... _definitely_ Aziraphale's) eases those slender thighs apart to settle between them. How his fingers would curl around the insides of his legs, kneading the flesh, watching the way Crowley's stomach would tighten at the sight of him. It's a horrifying breach of boundaries, he knows. Crowley is here to train, and nothing else. No matter how enticing he looks like this, the muscles of his torso flexing, the strands of fire sticking to the lines of his face.

No matter that he's teasing Aziraphale out of his mind, making his gut turn liquid and blazing.

The treadmill has stopped while Aziraphale was trying to divert the visceral need to watch him, focusing on a past calendar hung on the wall, and now Crowley's dismounted and standing next to him, deliciously flushed and damp. One step _too_ close. It takes Aziraphale a split second to clench his jaw and force himself to thread coherent thoughts so his own body won't ferret out things that have no proper place in his brain.

"So, now what?" Crowley asks. He’s breathless, his words cracking in sweet sighs, yet that coquettish smile is still clear on his face. "What do you have in store for me?"

"Arms?" Aziraphale tries, with a small smile. Desperate to sail into calm waters.

"What about 'em?"

Aziraphale takes a careful step back, settles with a swallow. "Ah, I thought perhaps we could start with dumbbells, progressively? To see how it goes?"

"Sure, that's fine."

Aziraphale guides him to the rack where he selects two medium dumbbells and offers them to Crowley. 

He takes them and spreads his legs a bit for balance, the slender curve of him seeming suddenly powerful in the rippling sinews and muscle. Aziraphale desperately hopes Crowley knows exactly how to use them, so he can avoid touching him as much as he can. He knows it'd be far from the best idea to do it, to indulge in even an inadvertent graze of skin. 

Crowley cranes his neck then, his eyes wide and full of mirth. "Could you uh, help me a bit here?"

"O-of course." Aziraphale blinks and compulsively squeezes his fingers together. "What do you need?"

"See," Crowley says, cocking a hip, his voice soft enough that it rasps in the air. "I always feel I'm mucking it up. Could you correct me?"

 _Oh, good Lord_. Aziraphale feels the tug of that hot, heavy thing sinking slowly, all the way down to his groin. He feels the hovering tension of his resistance pushing at the line of his shoulders because he ought not to, he should stay away. 

But it's his _job_. 

So, "Absolutely," he says, instead. 

Aziraphale takes a few tentative steps to where Crowley is standing in front of the mirror, the dumbbells hanging from his hands. 

But Aziraphale _won't_ touch him. He picks a similar pair and rehearses a position. 

"Just flex your arms like this." He bends his elbows, straightens his spine. "And keep your back straight."

Crowley looks at him, but the way he repeats the motion isn’t quite right. Aziraphale corrects him once, twice, thrice, until Crowley snaps. 

"Look," he bristles. "It would be far easier if you could just position me yourself."

 _Heavens, mercy_. 

"I don't think that will be necessary," Aziraphale says, hurried and skittish. 

"I think it rather is, if I don't seem to be doing it right, yeah?"

He's looking at Aziraphale with a pout, as if testing him, trying to pull at the tether that is wound tightly around him. And Aziraphale nods, putting his dumbbells down, shockingly aware of the weight of his skin all around. Because he knows Crowley's right and he's acting like a coward. _He can do this_. Crowley's only a client. 

But when he takes one step forward, the air he inhales is a lungful of Crowley, a hint of leather, of sandalwood, under the sweat that makes Aziraphale's mind whirl with something primal, something decisively hungry. He reaches with a hand and carefully rearranges Crowley's arms without uttering a word, trying to push back the dizzying sensation of the warm, soft skin that gives under his fingertips. Crowley's back, though, is still tense, still curved and rigid. 

"Relax," Aziraphale says, and without thinking, he places his broad palm against the small of Crowley's back. 

It's a mistake.

There's a small, almost imperceptible sigh, somewhat shivery, somewhat high-pitched coming from Crowley. He arches just so, making Aziraphale's touch press a bit deeper, a bit harder against the slippery skin. Aziraphale tries not to react, tries not to let the air that seems jammed in his throat shove out in a very incriminating, broken sigh, because Crowley is warm. So very warm, Aziraphale thinks it might burn him. His entire handspan is enough to almost cover the whole breadth of Crowley's waist, and he's so slender, so painfully small, Aziraphale thinks his thumbs could brush together if he circled his hands just above the flare of Crowley's hips. To grasp him tightly and perhaps press Crowley against him, kiss the side of that freckled shoulder peeking from the insufficient cover of black cloth. 

He feels Crowley stir under his touch. “ _Aziraphale_ ,” and it’s barely louder than a whisper. “Would you like to–”

"Could you," Aziraphale cuts him off, stills, and clears his throat. "Could you straighten your back?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, his voice rough, significantly darker than ten seconds ago. " _Ah–_ I can do that.”

Crowley arches his back, the long slope of his neck craning to the side, his lips only inches away from Aziraphale's. There’s something heated in that gaze and it feels like madness, the need to reach and close that insignificant space, very aware of the raging erection pulsing in his trousers. 

Aziraphale ought not to. He doesn’t even know if this is just Crowley being overly friendly and nothing else. Blithely flirting because this is how he is. 

Aziraphale doesn’t _know_ him. 

He takes a step away. 

"Right." He clears his throat, curls his nails deep into his palms. "I think that's quite alright."

Crowley looks at him with eyes wide and glazed, a red scrape on his bottom lip where it's clear he has set his teeth, deep. 

Hard. 

This day won't end soon enough.

* * *

Somehow, Aziraphale manages.

The next day, he isn't expecting to see Crowley. So he's almost startled out of his trainers when Gabriel's voice reaches him. 

"Aziraphale! There you are." 

Aziraphale twirls on his feet, and something akin to a strangled gasp tumbles out of his mouth. Because Crowley is there, smiling playfully at him. 

_Oh, this must be Hell._

"Anthony here has requested and paid for your exclusive time!" Gabriel rumbles, palming his shoulder. "Keep up the good work."

It's torture, this. Aziraphale’s gaze coasts along the soft lines of Crowley's body, from the white shirt that seems one size too small climbing up his stomach, to the very tight shorts below. Aziraphale's eyes fall heavily on the sparse swell of Crowley's thighs, the narrow spread of his hips. The way he walks to his locker, his lovely arse swaying impossibly, right in front of Aziraphale.

It's positively tempting. Sinfully so. But he won't let his traitorous thoughts seep through. 

"So, what's for today?" Crowley asks with a ravishing smile, without giving Aziraphale time to scramble for some sense of balance. “What are you gonna give me?”

"Ah, right." Aziraphale grips and twists the towel around his neck to tether himself to the moment, and reaches for the first thing that crosses his mind. "What if we start with strengthening your core? Abdominals?"

“Sure.” He sets his teeth on his bottom lip and smiles. "Sounds like an idea."

Aziraphale doesn't have the fuel for small talk, too afraid of letting slip a barrage of incoherent words in his attempt to muffle the silence. So he reaches for a mat and beckons to Crowley to lie there. 

He retreats back a step, consciously not looking at the image of Crowley laid out in front of him, pale skin so very vibrant against the black mat. 

But Crowley isn't having it. "Could you give me a bit of a hand here?"

 _Christ_. 

Aziraphale grinds his molars so hard, he hears the high pitch of static flaring in his ears. 

"Of course," he says, disregarding tightness in his gut. "How can I help?"

"Could you grab my legs?"

The exhale coming from Aziraphale's mouth is thready, scalding. He nods, only half aware of what he's doing, and kneels at Crowley's feet. It's difficult to stymie the fire stirring in his belly while he grips Crowley's knees. 

"Give me twenty," Aziraphale grates out. "Four sets."

“Oh, I know I can give you more than that,” Crowley smiles wickedly with a squirming roll of hips.

Aziraphale's toes curl at the lilt in that statement while he watches Crowley, his fire-like hair splayed in disarray, the long lines of that smooth neck teasing his reason. And for a fleeting moment, he wonders how it would feel to have Crowley like this, stretched and pliant, all for his enjoyment. How would it feel to let his hands roam, follow the curve of those slender legs and spread them apart. To taste him, the salty, brackish tang of sweat pervasive in his mouth. How sweet it would be to watch Crowley open for him, for the thick breach of his fingers, for the heavy weight of his cock against his slick and tight rim.

To finally _push_ inside him and fill him until he couldn't take one more inch. 

As if reading his mind, Crowley opens his legs wider of his own accord, and Aziraphale has to bite off a moan. 

He doesn't realize how ragged his breath is, how hard he's digging his fingers into the sparse flesh of Crowley's inner calves where his hands have slipped to, until he flicks his gaze down to Crowley's face and finds him looking back at him. Heavy lidded eyes, lips falling slack as if in the middle of a mangled word, cheeks flushed, skin dappled pink.

He’s a vision. 

Crowley lifts his weight then, and Aziraphale can feel the shift of the muscles beneath his palms. The pull and push of that beautiful body as Crowley directs it to do what Aziraphale had requested. Aziraphale's insides churn and roll with arousal when Crowley stops, now sitting, his face just a few scant inches away from Aziraphale's own. 

He isn't lying down.

It's impossible to deny how much Aziraphale wants to press his mouth against those red lips. How much he wants to touch, to rip away that sheer white shirt and splay his hands across Crowley's narrow chest, suck Crowley's nipples into his mouth. To bring him closer and card his fingers through those strands of flaming hair, fisting it, to make Crowley gasp and moan, wet on his tongue. 

His cock is a thick bulge in his pants, throbbing, leaking a terrible mess. He wants so much he's breathless. 

And Crowley isn't moving. 

This is absolutely inappropriate. 

"Now, nineteen more, please," Aziraphale manages. But it's a feeble, shy thing. Frayed like the ends of a rope. 

Crowley’s warm breath fans Aziraphale’s mouth, and for a short, desperately raw moment, he looks at Aziraphale as if waiting. The air shivers around them until Crowley lies back again, and soon he's doing the rest of the routine while Aziraphale concentrates very hard on the unflattering colors of the walls.

Once he finishes, Aziraphale retreats as fast as he can and sips water from his bottle, rubbing his flushed face with his towel. He isn't ready to look Crowley in the eye. It's impossible to pretend his fingers haven't left indents on Crowley's calves, how his control is hanging by a thread. And only from some lighthearted teasing that doesn’t really mean anything. 

"So, what now?" Crowley asks. Nonchalant, but not entirely. There's something not quite flat in his voice. Something that edges into a smirk, but surely Aziraphale is reading it wrong. 

"Planks!" He almost yelps. At least that way, he can go and stay away while the exercise lasts. "Do you know how to…?"

"Oh yeah, I can definitely do that,” he grins. 

Crowley turns around and he quickly rises on all fours, his long legs stretched back, his arms bent at the elbows.

"Is this alright for you?" Crowley rasps, grinning at him over his shoulder.

Aziraphale can't bear the sight. "Perfect."

The fabric of Crowley's shorts does nothing but hug the perfect curve of his little arse in a way it has Aziraphale's cock straining, insistent inside his pants. He can even see the naked rise of Crowley's buttocks from underneath the fabric, while Crowley groans, and grunts at the exertion, throwing his head back. 

It's overwhelming, the need to skim his fingers across the miles of bare skin, to make a space of his own between Crowley's legs and bury his face in the crease of his arse cheeks. To lave and lap with his tongue, to make him sloppy, loose, and ready to take his cock in a single thrust up to the hilt. 

_Good Lord_. 

This can't keep going. 

There's a quiet noise falling from Crowley's mouth, a half-muffled moan when Crowley tenses his thighs, his calves, and mutters a rough, " _Fuck_." 

Aziraphale feels feverish, burning in his own skin, and if he doesn't put some space, some distance between them, it's very possible he will lose his mind. Because he can't ravish Crowley from behind like an animal, spilling in him and leaving him dripping with his spend in the middle of an open room, a public space, tacky and sweat-damp skin gliding and pressing against each other. _No._

This isn't something Crowley wants. It can’t be. Much as Aziraphale would like to believe it, he barely knows this man, and Aziraphale isn't such a disrespectful git as to end up touching him with a whole unwanted set of intentions behind a brush of fingers. 

Just then, Crowley breaks the plank and kneels on the mat, arching his spine deep, lips open pink in a very clear moan. 

Aziraphale _can't_ do this anymore. 

"I have to go!" he almost shouts, springing up from his seat. "So sorry. Something else came up! Y-you need to talk to Gabriel about finishing your day."

Crowley scrambles to his feet in a second. "Hey, Aziraphale, wait."

"I'm afraid I can't," he says, grabbing his water bottle and bunching up his towel in his trembling hand. “Again, terribly sorry.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Crowley asks, almost sprinting to the door before Aziraphale crosses the threshold. And then he blushes. Soft pink blooming in his cheeks, probably from the effort he just made. “Will you come back?”

Aziraphale is already out of the room, when he looks behind his shoulder and tosses Crowley an almost pained look. “I- I really don’t know.”

And with that he darts to the front desk making up excuses to Gabriel before grabbing his bag and sprinting out of the building as if all the legions of Hell were chasing him. 

* * *

Aziraphale is exhausted. He's been working outside of his usual shift just to avoid running into Crowley, and the flow of people after six in the evening is outrageous. 

Now, past nine, the gym is practically deserted, with just a few clients already leaving the premises. Perhaps a few more in the lower areas. 

Aziraphale is in desperate need of a shower. He usually waits until he gets home, but he's already here and his muscles ache, and to bask under a soft drizzle of warm water sounds lovely. 

He shoulders the door open, setting his bag down on the floor, already toeing off his trainers and making short work of his shirt. He isn't expecting to find anyone in here, so when a half-choked gasp rips through the air, Aziraphale is startled. He finds his balance on the nearby tiles, and considers. There's no need to run, because he has a right to be here as well. This is far from the first time he's shared the shower space with someone else. 

The sounds grow a bit louder, edging into half-aborted words and, even over the gush of water, Aziraphale can't help but notice how familiar, how sweet the voice is. 

It scrapes up some repressed, nascent déja vu, one that makes heat coil at the base of his spine. His feet edge forward very much despite himself. Aziraphale peeks around the corner, driving on impulse, gliding over the wet floor with blazing curiosity, and stills. His throat closes and squeezes tightly, unable to form words, his whole body drawing to a halt. Because standing below the stream, mouth generously open, given to the water, back arched in a deep curve, is Crowley. 

It's a deeply affecting view, one that sears its frames into Aziraphale's mind, and he knows no matter how hard he tries he will never be able to raze them from his brain. The way Crowley's hands roam over his body, stroking the skin, from his chest down to the dip of his stomach, skidding smoothly, lathering soap. There's a brief, shocked sort of a pause when Aziraphale wonders if perhaps he has fallen asleep. But then Crowley's fingers work around his own nipples, twisting those flat, hot points of dark skin until they're puffy, stiff, and the moan that breaks through the steam is all too real, all too raw and human to pretend this is anything but. 

Aziraphale should go. Walk– no, _run_ away. But his feet seem nailed to the floor, and his eyes, greedy and traitorous, are riveted to the sight in front of him. To the firm, tight curve of that arse that has driven him to madness, to the crease of that spine, to the long sweep of that throat. To the perfect face in blissful enjoyment under the stream. 

His cock is already half-hard in his pants, and a soft sigh escapes him, even though he knows this is wrong. Crowley shouldn't even be here. And Aziraphale shouldn't be watching him in a moment that tastes so intimate, when Crowley is clearly savouring the unconcerned freedom of being alone.

Aziraphale is about to take a step back and scurry away, perhaps think about changing jobs, when he realizes what Crowley is doing. One of his hands is spreading the round muscle of an arsecheek, leaving the vulnerable, tight rim of muscle exposed. Aziraphale sees a swirl of water tantalizingly flowing down the dimples at the small of Crowley's back between the crease of his arse, lapping at his entrance, and there's no denying how Aziraphale's cock pulses, jerks hard in his pants, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. 

It's impossible not to think about having Crowley split open on his fingers, stretched wide around his cock, while Aziraphale drives into him deeper and faster, fucking him until Crowley's practically bouncing on him. A mangled moan almost falls out of his mouth but Aziraphale bites his lip, while Crowley now circles his rim with a finger before pushing _inside_. 

It tastes like a late-night fantasy, watching Crowley spreading himself on two fingers now, his hips making lax and lazy rolls around the flicks of his wrist. 

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Crowley moans, and Aziraphale feels a spurt of precome leak at the word. 

Crowley slides his free hand to his cock, curling his fingers around the hard length, until just the head, red and swollen, breaches his fist. He works it slow, the movements in sync with his own fingers thrusting in his arse and Aziraphale can't do anything but watch. The way Crowley’s body jolts, those biteable thighs of his quivering. The bulge in Aziraphale’s pants grows so painful he palms himself along the ridge, desperately hoping his need will abate itself that way. 

He knows it's pointless. 

"Oh, yes, please." Crowley tilts his head back, his long hair falling sopping against his back while he works now three fingers inside his dripping arsehole, a hard pace on his cock. "Oh, god, _Aziraphale_."

The world tilts around Aziraphale at the halting reality. He's watching Crowley bring himself off at the memory of _him_ . And it's intoxicating to know that in each movement of Crowley's fingers inside his pert arse, he's wishing, _wanting,_ the heavy weight of Aziraphale's cock. Wanting the stretch that would make him feel finally stuffed _full_. 

Crowley's mouth falls slack around a whimper that sounds like Aziraphale's name, again and again, begging for more, for harder, and suddenly Aziraphale can't take it anymore. 

He presses a palm flat against the cool tiles and draws himself in hand, his waistband pulled low around his hips. He sighs with relief and gives his cock a few measured strokes, knowing this is still decidedly not right. But he can't back down, his blood screaming wildly under his skin, God help him. He can't. 

Crowley pauses, and Aziraphale watches in a daze while he bends to the side and out of the shower to a little bench, where his bag is open. He fumbles for a moment before pulling out a black dildo from within, attaching the base to the wet tiles of the shower. 

This is reckless, Aziraphale knows. Anyone could barge into the bathroom and find Crowley impaled on his dildo, fucking himself to completion. A selfish, possessive feeling courses through him, because no one should see Crowley like this. So breathtaking in his carefree pleasure. 

He watches Crowley as he turns around, and he freezes because, in the wisp of a second, those lovely, hazel eyes find him. Fix on him. And Crowley has to see the incriminating mess he's made of himself. Shirtless, flushed down to his chest, his cock leaking and red in his hand. Aziraphale can't deny what he's doing, what he's been doing for a few minutes now, and his thoughts reel around the best way to apologize for this… this absolutely dreadful intrusion. 

But Crowley's smiling, his hand now back on his cock, teeth set on his plump bottom lip, and his heavy breathing shifts into something more solid, thicker. A moan. 

"Oh, fuck, Aziraphale, that's not fair," Crowley says, the syllables stretched wildly around a whine, looking directly at him, his gaze shifting lower. "I want that. Christ, you're _huge_."

Aziraphale feels as if all the air is crushed out of his lungs, his fear thawing into something heady. He can't stop his hand from moving, his cockhead pushing through his hard grasp. "Crowley," he says, gravel-rough, begging almost, "don't tempt me. I can't–"

Crowley twirls on his feet, away from Aziraphale, and spreads his arsecheeks, exposing the tucked-away whorled ring of muscle, dipping two fingers inside. "Oh, I rather think you can. I’ve seen the way you look at me," a slew of whimpers frothing out of his throat. " _Aziraphale_ , you can't leave me like this."

“ _Crowley_.”

“C’mon,” Crowley whimpers. “Aren’t you going to touch me? After riling me up for two fucking days?”

“ _Me_ riling _you_ up?” Oh, Aziraphale knows he’s lost. " _Fuck_."

It only takes him a second to reach Crowley, haphazardly kicking off his track pants and underwear before stepping under the warm stream. His hard cock jabs against one of Crowley’s buttocks, accusing, lewd, a trail of precome wetting Crowley’s skin and lost to the water. 

“You bloody tease, you were doing it on purpose,” Aziraphale buries the rough words in Crowley’s hair. Hungry. He grips Crowley’s hips hard enough to bruise and hears him moaning. “Teasing me so, until I could barely think.”

He cups Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head to the side and kisses him, open and panting right from the start. He dips his fingers into that mane of red hair and sucks Crowley’s bottom lip between his teeth, nipping at it, pushing his tongue inside Crowley’s mouth.

“You were the one standing there like fucking eye-candy. Christ, look at you,” Crowley breathes against Aziraphale’s mouth. A silvery thread of saliva between their lips. “You’ve no idea how hard I wanted to ride you. To sit on your cock and let you make a mess of me.”

There’s a growl torn from deep within Aziraphale, while his hands roam over every inch of Crowley’s soaked skin. Pinching a nipple, kneading the flesh of his hips. “Oh, you impossible thing. I wanted to take you. _So badly._ To bury myself in this lovely arse of yours,” and he squeezes Crowley’s buttocks, making him gasp, “since the first time I saw you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Crowley pushes back, bracing his hands on the wall. “Do it then. You have me now, what’s stopping you?”

It’s more than Aziraphale can take. He kisses Crowley again, feeling him shudder in his arms. “Do you have a condom? I’m afraid I don’t–”

“I’m clean,” Crowley blurts out, and he sounds earnest, keen. “I mean, this isn’t how I do things. I haven’t been with anyone in a year. But if you don’t want–”

“Oh, I do. _Very much_ ,” and his cock jerks, impatient. “I’m clean as well.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s shoulders and spreads his legs wider with a nudge of his knee, before angling those narrow hips, making Crowley’s erection bob, glistening and wet. Aziraphale fucks his way into Crowley’s arse slowly, working his cock into that tight hole with care. He knows his girth, his heft, can be overwhelming the first time, and he wants to make this last. Crowley takes his cockhead with a groan, a half-sob, while Aziraphale spreads his cheeks apart to watch his rim give in with spastic squeezes, stretched puffy and red around Aziraphale’s prick, and he has to grind his jaw to keep himself from coming. Crowley’s a vise around him, and Aziraphale drags him back by the hips, further and further until his balls rest against Crowley’s taint, heavy and come-filled. 

Crowley’s head falls forward, his back soaked by the soft drizzle. “Oh, fuck. Oh, _Christ_. You feel huge.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathes, strangled with need. “Oh, darling, are you alright?”

“Ngh. Never better.” Crowley rolls his hips, adjusting. “Oh, _fuck me_ . Hard _._ C’mon, give it to me.”

Aziraphale slides his broad palms along Crowley's sides, circling his waist. "I can't believe, _ah–_ I can't believe you're letting me–" He feels Crowley's walls fluttering around him, shifting, so tight he knows he isn't going to last long. " _Good God_ , you're tight."

Aziraphale falls on Crowley, kissing him again, Crowley's mouth opening sweetly for him just like his arse. He begins thrusting slowly, but Crowley isn’t having it. He pushes back, committing to spearing himself open with each buck of hips. So Aziraphale moves faster, pumping Crowley full of his cock while he whines and whimpers so loudly Aziraphale is frightened someone will hear them. 

“Keep your voice down,” he begs, slipping wet inside Crowley’s well-used hole. “Someone might come."

But Crowley is outright wailing, and the sounds are loud. Aziraphale tries not to panic. He glances at the dildo stuck to the wall, and in a second he reaches for it, repositions it higher. 

Just at the right height for Crowley's mouth. 

Crowley cranes his neck to look at him with hazed, starry eyes, and grins. "You dirty bastard," he says, over the filthy squelch of their skins, the slap of thighs against arse. "I knew _oh_ – I knew you were something else."

Aziraphale wants to protest, but Crowley opens his lips and takes the dildo into his mouth while swaying back, his buttocks pressing tightly against Aziraphale's groin. The sight almost makes Aziraphale tumble over the edge, Crowley's body so pliable, so accommodating, as if made to take him. He fucks Crowley hard, sinking relentlessly into that maddening heat with his heart pounding in his chest, relishing the straining sounds squeezed out of that throat around the muffling silicon. 

"Oh, Lord." Aziraphale gives a particularly deep push and Crowley's knees buckle a bit, his hips twisting, but Aziraphale follows them, thrusting away. "You feel every inch of me inside you, don't you, darling? You want more?"

Crowley nods around a dampened groan, bobbing his head around the fake cock on the wall, pulsing and tightening around Aziraphale. It's exquisite, the way Crowley moves, the way he looks. Aziraphale bends to suck at the tender spot between Crowley's shoulder and neck, his hand planted at one side of Crowley's head on the tiles, the other digging crescents on Crowley's waist. His hips pound harder and he watches Crowley working his cock in harsh, quick strokes. It isn't long before he feels Crowley's thighs jolting, his spine, his sides juddering in riled shifting, his pleasure cresting. Aziraphale feels the delicious pull of his own orgasm, heavy in his groin, his bollocks drawing up.

"I'm close," he groans, nosing the tender line of Crowley's neck. "Can you take it all?" A desperate low moan from Crowley while his body spasms, a wet sound from his mouth as assent. "Take it, t– _ah_!"

Aziraphale rocks his hips brutally, feeling his climax arriving swiftly, like the stab of a dagger. He spills, pumps Crowley's waiting hole with his load, so much he can feel his come overflowing, mixing with the water and trickling out of Crowley's clenching arse. Muffled cries fall out of Crowley's mouth until he throws his head back, dislodging the dildo from his abused throat, practically collapsing on Aziraphale's chest. 

Their ragged breaths swell in the room, clash against the clinical white of the tiles, and Aziraphale is grateful for the strength of his thighs. Otherwise he would have let them collapse on the floor. This can't end like this. Aziraphale finds himself desperately wanting to keep Crowley in his arms. 

He fits so well there. 

"That was nice," Crowley murmurs, hoarse, a bit breathless. "Bet you didn't see that one coming."

Aziraphale chuckles, finally leaving Crowley's soaked hole, a steady stream of his seed flowing out and dripping down Crowley's thighs. "I certainly couldn't have dreamed that running away from you would cause this to come to pass, no."

"Why did you run?" Crowley pulls him under the warm stream of the shower, massaging Aziraphale's scalp, the line of his shoulders, and Aziraphale can't help but take him in his arms and kiss him. "Why did you make me spend almost all day in this bloody gym waiting for you to come in here? This was my last resort, you know?"

"I didn't know you wanted me. I didn't know all your teasing was real," he says, into the line of Crowley's jaw. "Are you telling me you planned this?"

"W-yeah. You seemed a bit dense."

"Crowley! Honestly, my dear, you could've just asked me out, and I would've said yes."

"Well, I'm asking you now. Would you go out with me?"

"Absolutely. Although I think we've jumbled the order of things a bit…,” Aziraphale swallows, commits himself to being honest. "I’ll understand if you want to keep this casual, but if you are amenable, I'd very much like to make this something stable."

The glint in Crowley's eyes makes Aziraphale's heart jump, his stomach twist. "Oh, I'm more than amenable. Schedule all cleared for you."

Aziraphale brings their lips together, kissing Crowley with a soft, sweet edge that he knows is the prelude to something bigger. He isn't fighting it any longer. 

"Then allow me to take you to dinner. I'm personally feeling a bit peckish."

"Yeah, me too." Crowley laces his arms around Aziraphale's neck and Aziraphale returns the gesture with a gentle curl of his hands around Crowley's waist. "What do you fancy?"

"Sushi, perhaps?"

Crowley smiles at him, boyish and gentle. "Sounds like a plan," he says, and Aziraphale can't wish for anything better. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/)


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